“Done again! This ‘blind’ isn’t blind at all,” he cried, pointing to the car-end.
It was hideously true. There was a narrow door which they had not observed in the end of the car. Just then it was closed fast enough, but there was no telling when it might be opened.
“Anyhow,” said Elliott, plucking up courage, “we’re making nearly forty miles an hour, and every minute they leave us in peace means almost another mile gained.”
“Yes, and there’s just a chance that nobody opens this door. I think that if we stop again we’d better give this train up.”
They watched the door anxiously as the minutes and the miles went past, but it remained unopened. The little stations flew past—Clarksville, Annada, Winfield. It was not far to West Alton, and that was practically St. Louis.
The end was almost in sight. But the door opened suddenly, and the brakeman they had before encountered came out.
“I told you fellows to get off half an hour ago.”
“Now, look here,” said Bennett, persuasively. “We’re not doing this train any harm at all. We’re not going inside; we’ll stay right here, and we’ll jump the minute she slows for Alton. We’re no hobos. We’re straight enough, only we’re playing in hard luck just now and we’ve simply got to stay on this train. Now you go away, and just fancy you never saw us, and you’ll be doing us a good turn.”
The brakeman reflected a moment, looked at them with an expression more of sorrow than of anger, and returned to the car without saying anything.
“He’s all right,” said Elliott.